


Trinité, or, The Three Loves of Mademoiselle Lesgle de Meaux

by Eglantine, PilferingApples



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU, Canon Era, F/F, First Meetings, Lesbians, Multi, Printer Enjolras, Republicans, gender swap, sexual awakenings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilferingApples/pseuds/PilferingApples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Men who want to dress as women and women who want to dress as men know the person to ask is a seamstress called Musichetta. This unusual trade brings Musichetta in contact with Manon Lesgle and Anne Joly, two young women who wish to live as gentlemen in order to pursue their educations. But it's 1823: the King is dying, France is changing, and there is more to learn about the world and about themselves than either expected.</p><p>Gender-swapped Joly and Lesgle AU. Written for the Les Mis Big Bang 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Musichetta

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Les Miserables Big Bang 2016. Fic by Eglantine, amazing art by PilferingApples.

Autumn, 1823.

You can find anything in Paris. Or, from the perspective of Mademoiselle Musichetta (for that was all anyone called her anymore), you can become anything in Paris. 

You can become, for example, a seamstress frequented by men and women who wish to dress as women and men— for whatever cause. Musichetta inquires only so far as it affects the work she has to do.

“You’d be surprised,” she said one day. “The demand.”

“Surprised?” replied Irma Boissy, herself just an ordinary boot-stitcher. “Not really.” 

One day, a different day, she answered her door to a young woman: tall and broad-shouldered, with an awkward bearing, a ruddy complexion, and a shawl wrapped tightly over her head against the late autumn cold. As was her custom, Musichetta invited her in, and saw them both settled before she began asking questions. 

“I have a suit,” the girl said. Musichetta thought she was perhaps twenty or twenty-one— her own age, really. “But it doesn’t quite fit. I was told you could help.”

“And what is it for?” Musichetta asked. “A party, a lover’s fancy?”

“No,” the girl said. “I’d like to live as a man.” 

“Would you.” This particular variation on the theme was quite rare. “And how have you come to that decision?” 

“I have nothing,” the girl said. “No family, no money, no trade. But with education and wit, which I flatter myself that I have, a man may make something of himself even so.”

“Your voice is high,” Musichetta pointed out. “Your shoulders are good, but your hands are small. And you’ll have to cut off your hair, you know.”

“Ah,” the girl said. “As to that.” 

She pulled off the scarf.

“Oh,” said Musichetta. “Well, alright.”

*

After her father died, Manon Lesgle’s hair began to fall out. She would wake up in the morning and look at it, long, auburn curls on the pillow— she cut the bottom off, up to her shoulders, thinking perhaps making it lighter would help— and within a year, it was all gone. So she decided to go to Paris. 

The options open to her— a young woman past twenty with no money, but raised with sufficient gentility to also have no useful skills— were not appealing And perhaps it came from reading too many plays and novels, or from spending too long staring in the mirror looking at how dark and heavy her eyebrows now seemed, how prominent her ears, how she had really never been a beauty but she certainly was not now. But she decided the solution would be not to continue as a young lady at all. And so she went to Paris, and as one can find anything in Paris, before long she found herself directed to a young woman who, she was told, helped with such things. 

“So you’re a seamstress,” she said to Musichetta. “That makes sense.” 

“As much sense as anything,” Musichetta replied. “You said that you have nothing… dare I hope you’re speaking metaphorically?” 

Manon— or rather, Lesgle, for so men seemed to call themselves— ran a hand over her head, sheepish. It was a new habit, one she was trying to break. “Well… almost. I have a very little bit of money, and I have a plan.”

“And what is that?” 

“Well, I’m very good at Latin, and according to the sisters who taught me, I argue very well. So—” She took a breath, then laughed. She’d said none of this out loud before, and suddenly it sounded preposterous. “I shall enroll in law school. The way I see it, if I find some work on the side, I can surely save enough by the end of the year to sit my exams. And for only four years? That’s not so very long. And even after the fees, I have a bit of money left I could offer you… if it isn’t enough, I am sure I could manage some sort of payment in kind, I could do some work for you…” 

Musichetta held up a hand to stop her. “Whatever you can offer is more than enough.” 

She took a step back, looking Lesgle over with what seemed to be a practiced eye. It was strange to be so scrutinized. When she could stand the feeling no more, she said, “I suppose there is one other thing.”

“Yes?” 

“You can’t laugh. I swear it’s true. I’m very unlucky, you see.” 

To her credit, Musichetta didn’t quite laugh. She did snort. “Luck has nothing to do with it. People see what they expect to see. That’s what I’ve found. And with your hair— your, um…”

“Lack thereof?” she offered cheerfully.

“Right. And these full-skirted coats that are the fashion now, that can help. Tastes will move on eventually, of course, but for now…” 

“Oh, I will endeavor to make a single coat last the rest of my life,” Lesgle said cheerfully. “I shall learn to be frugal, though it’s certainly not a lesson my parents ever gave me… which perhaps will not come as a surprise, given the circumstances in which I find myself.” 

“Well,” Musichetta said. She shrugged and turned away to retrieve a little basket that was brimming over with spare bits of cloth and tangled thread. “Circumstances occur.” 

“And what circumstances brought you to this trade?” 

Musichetta hesitated— or maybe she really was momentarily distracted looking through her sewing basket. Then she said, “I had a friend. Who wished to— live as you hope to. I sew costumes, and so she— he?— thought that perhaps I could make something suitable. And then… well, word got around, I suppose. Mostly to those seeking fancy dress of some sort, for a party, a lark. I don’t know, it’s like with any reputation. Who knows how it got spread around?” 

Lesgle laughed. “There are certainly worse reputations.” 

“And is that what brought you here?” There was just enough archness in the question to turn the nosiness into a joke— nearly. “Reputations?” 

But Lesgle considered her answer. “After a fashion, you might say so. A reputation as too poor, too ugly, too mouthy to marry— and so what is a girl to do?” 

“Become a boy, evidently. Let’s see what we have.” 

Lesgle opened up the bag she carried and shook out the contents. Musichetta looked through the pieces thoughtfully, murmuring to herself, then passed them back over to Lesgle.

“Right, then, put them on.” 

Lesgle glanced around. It was just the one room, Musichetta’s flat, with the bed wedged in one corner and a very small sofa in another, half-finished coats and dresses strewn about the place. Musichetta was looking expectant, though, so Lesgle turned her back so Musichetta could help unbutton her gown. As Lesgle slipped off her petticoats, she wondered if it would be the last time she would do so.

The trousers pulled strangely across her hips, flat though they were, while the jacket fit well through the arms and shoulders but pulled too tight even across her negligible bosom. None of it was the height of fashion, all having been bought second-hand in various places, to avoid arousing suspicion. But as she stood there, and caught a glimpse of herself in Musichetta’s mirror, Lesgle thought for the first time that this really might work. 

“I’m called Musichetta,” she said as she knelt to inspect the fall of the front of the trousers. “I don’t know if anyone mentioned it.”

“They did,” Lesgle said. “I’m Manon. Lesgle.”

“And have you thought about what you’ll call yourself?”

“Martin, I though,” she said. “That was my grandfather’s name, my father always said it was what he would have called a son.” 

“That’s a rather striking surname— do you know anyone in Paris? Will they recognize it?”

“I suppose someone might. Meaux isn’t that far.” Lesgle grinned. “People did always try to spell it _aigle_ — perhaps I could adopt it.” 

“How wonderfully Napoleonic,” Musichetta said. “Is M. Laigle descended from Bonapartists?” 

“Why, perhaps he is.” 

It was great fun, devising the story of M. Laigle’s life, though Lesgle was sure she wouldn’t remember half of it when it came to repeat it to someone else. She found herself curled up on Musichetta’s sofa in her shirtsleeves, Musichetta sprawled over the opposite end. When she glanced towards the window, she was startled to see that it had grown dark. 

“Where do you live?” Musichetta asked, following her gaze to the window.

“Ah, well,” Lesgle said. She ran her hand over her head. “I was going to look to that next. I didn’t realize how late it was getting.” 

“It’s too late to find anything now. Stay. For the night.”

“Oh—” She sat up. “Are you sure? Do you mean it? You’ve done so much already.” 

“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise. You can’t go wandering off into the night.” 

Lesgle smiled. “I will, then. Thank you.” 

Necessity demanded that she already trust Musichetta. It was a pleasant surprise to realize that she liked her, too.

 

*

During Lesgle’s first few weeks in law school, she proved a more attentive student than she’d ever been in her life. She saw it as pursuing two courses of study: she dutifully attended all of her law lectures and took tidy, copious notes (if the sisters could see her now!)… and in the afternoons, she sat in a café or a park and watched men pass by. She watched the way they carried themselves, the way they spoke to other men and to women and to children. She found her shoulders slipped quite naturally into the careless slouch that corsets prevented. 

She never quite had the time to find a new flat. And Musichetta never brought it up.

“Don’t you have anywhere to be?” Musichetta asked as she prepared to check in at the theatre for the evening, and Lesgle settled in with her books. “Anyone to go out with?”

Lesgle grinned sheepishly. “I haven’t really… well, no, I don’t.”

“You ought to have friends.”

“I have you, don’t I?”

“You ought to have more friends than just the one,” Musichetta said. She tilted her head, looking thoughtful, then said, “Listen, here’s an idea: some friends of mine are going to the theatre tomorrow. Why don’t you join them, and then I’ll meet you all after the play, and we’ll go out together. They’re splendid. Well,” she amends, “Irma and Floréal are, and Floréal has some new beau, but I’m sure he’s wonderful as well.” 

“Well…” said Lesgle. Musichetta was right, of course, but the idea seemed so much more daunting than sitting silently in a lecture hall.

“No argument,” Musichetta said, holding up a finger. “You must go out. Or else you may as well put on your skirts and go back home. What’s the point of living as a man if you don’t make any use of it?” 

“Very well, very well!” Lesgle said. “I’ll go. I promise.” 

*

The boulevard du Temple and its nearby theatres was not terribly far from Musichetta’s lodgings, themselves near Les Halles, but Lesgle had still never gone. This was a step of freedom she had not yet taken. It was like another world— going out at night, by herself, in a _city_ where sunset didn’t send everyone off the streets and into their homes. Here, on the contrary, people seemed to be drawn forth by the oncoming night. 

Lesgle walked quickly, shoulders hunched against the cold. But despite the chill, as she drew closer to the boulevard du Temple, she pulled off her hat. Musichetta had described her friends, but she had also described Lesgle to them, and Lesgle suspected her own looks would prove more distinctive than two pretty grisettes, one brown-haired and one blonde. 

She tried to remind herself that she wasn’t really as conspicuous as she felt, though the longer she lingered waiting, the more convinced she became that everyone was watching her and wondering who on earth she was, and why she was just standing around in the cold. Stamping her feet to get warm, Lesgle began to worry that she hadn’t left herself enough time to find the rest of the group before the play began. 

A hand clapped on her shoulder from behind. She jumped and whirled around.

“Monsieur Laigle?” said a cheerful-looking boy of about eighteen or so.

“Yes?” she said uncertainly. 

“Oh, good.” The boy laughed. “It would have been horribly embarrassing if you weren’t. I’ve been sent to look for you-- you know, aren’t we in the same Civil Code lecture?” 

“Are we?”

Before the boy could answer, two girls came rushing up, curls and petticoats flouncing.

“That’s him, then?” one said. Then, to Lesgle, “You’re Musichetta’s friend?” Lesgle nodded. “Splendid! I’m Floréal, this is Irma— and this is Monsieur Courfeyrac.” 

“It seems we may be classmates, but it’s a pleasure to be properly acquainted,” Courfeyrac said brightly, then offered his arm to Floréal. Lesgle glanced at Irma, who lifted a brow. Lesgle offered her arm, and Irma took it. 

“Irma says that Musichetta says you’re quite entirely a country mouse,” Courfeyrac said as he started for the door. “So it seems the burden of seeing these fine ladies entertained this evening will fall to me.”

“You’re certainly an expert,” Irma said. “You’ve lived in Paris— what is it, four months now?” 

“Well, that’s nearly twice as long as me,” Lesgle said cheerfully. “I grew up just up the way in Meaux, but I’d never been to Paris in my life before now. So I will happily defer to your expertise.” 

“Meaux, you say? I’m from Gascogne.” 

“ _Are_ you? I’d never have guessed.” It was out before Lesgle could stop it, and she found her shoulders hunching in instinctive anticipation of a scolding for being too arch. But Courfeyrac laughed. 

“My father would be horrified to hear that my accent is considered so obvious,” Courfeyrac replied, sounding more than a bit pleased by the idea, himself. 

Once they stepped inside, Courfeyrac did a masterful job of shouldering his way through the throng of playgoers. Lesgle and Irma just followed in his wake. As they mounted the stairs to the balcony, Lesgle was slightly relieved to see the quality of the patrons’ dress begin to more nearly match her own. Musichetta had done an excellent job, of course, but it was still a turned coat. But these were students, artists, girls that greeted Irma and Floréal cheerfully by name. Courfeyrac craned his neck, peering through the crowd. 

“Who are you looking for?” Irma asked. 

“A friend said he’d try to come,” Courfeyrac said. “But I don’t see him— I hope he turns up, I thought he could make up the numbers once Mlle. Musichetta joins us. --how long have you known her, anyway?” he added, turning to Lesgle. 

“Oh, just a few weeks,” Lesgle said. 

Courfeyrac lifted a brow and gave a knowing grin. “A few weeks, really? And living together already? That’s what Mlle. Irma said.” 

“Oh, um.” Lesgle laughed. “It’s really more a matter of convenience, if I’m to be perfectly honest. You and I have only just met, after all, and I would hate to create an image of myself that I could only fail to live up to. I don’t object to living with her, of course.” 

“Nor should you, if she’s anything like her friends!” Courfeyrac said. “Clever _and_ beautiful, what more can a man ask?” 

Though her complexion tended to ruddiness, Lesgle rarely blushed— a fact for which she felt suddenly grateful. She was likewise grateful for the play beginning, offering apt excuse not to discuss the matter any further. Courfeyrac seemed friendly enough that she doubted he’d push if she really resisted, but such resistance would surely only seem suspicious. 

And, she thought, why resist anyway? Make some flirtatious comments about Musichetta, some insinuating lies, and the two of them could laugh about it later. But when Courfeyrac picked up the conversation during the interval, the words just wouldn’t come, and Courfeyrac soon gave the effort up as useless.

“We’ll have you rid of that country prudishness soon enough, Laigle de Meaux,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. 

“Yes, just call me Bossuet,” Lesgle said solemnly. “As devout, and as chaste.” 

Courfeyrac burst out laughing and clapped Lesgle on the shoulder. “Oh, yes, very good!” 

As the action began onstage, Lesgle did her best not to look entirely like some ignorant provincial— but she was forced to conclude that she did quite like the theatre. And if Courfeyrac laughed once or twice at her outsized reactions to the revelations onstage, well, she’d consider it worth it. She’d dedicate herself to cultivating a proper Parisian aloofness later. 

And in her defense, Courfeyrac himself was far from a somber and inexpressive person. Lingering outside after the play was through, Courfeyrac suddenly cried out in delight and began waving frantically to someone approaching through the crowd. 

“Combeferre!” he cried cheerfully. “Join us, join us!” 

The said Combeferre was a bespectacled young man with a cloud of curly red hair, a rather impressive beard to match, and a slightly distracted expression. 

“How do you do?” he said, drawing nearer. Inclining his head to Lesgle and the ladies, he said, “I’m Combeferre.” 

“And here we have Floréal and Irma, and Mlle. Musichetta will be joining us any moment,” Courfeyrac said. “And this is my fellow law student, Laigle.” 

Combeferre offered a hand, and Lesgle took it, asking, “Are you a law student as well?”

Combeferre broke into an unexpectedly sunny smile. “Of a kind. I am a medical student, but that is not the limit of my studies.” 

“How did you meet, then?” Irma asked. 

“We are both from Gascogne,” Courfeyrac said. 

“Not that you can tell, with him,” Floréal murmured. Courfeyrac swatted at one of her sleeves, and she made a face and hurriedly fluffed it back up again. 

“We’d never met,” Courfeyrac went on, “but family friends suggested that I look him up when I got to Paris— and how glad I am that I did! I shall be eternally grateful to myself. I think it the intervention of fate.”

“You’re too kind,” Combeferre said dryly. “I am glad you did as well, of course. At least most of the time. But what are your plans for these evening?” 

“We must show Laigle here the wonders of Paris—isn’t that so?” Courfeyrac looked to Irma and Floréal, who gave their assent to this plan. “There is a wine shop I know not far from here… you will join us, won’t you?” 

“I would like that very much, if I’m not imposing,” Combeferre said. 

“Not at all!” Courfeyrac cried. “You will make our numbers even. You may escort Mlle. Irma here, if you like— I am quite confident that you and she will find a great deal to talk about.”

Combeferre looked over at Irma with an expression of faint surprise, one that made Lesgle suspect Courfeyrac was referring to some topic in particular. “Oh, really?” 

Irma shrugged, but despite her demure posture, her gaze was sharp. “I do like to read.” 

“I feel like I’ve missed a step here,” Lesgle said, but before anyone could enlighten her, Musichetta made her appearance. She slid her arm at once into Lesgle’s as she approached, and Lesgle glanced away from Courfeyrac’s grin.

“Oh, hello,” she said, looking to the gentlemen. “I’m Musichetta. You must be Courfeyrac, and…?”

“Combeferre,” he said, inclining his head. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“I hope you all enjoyed the show,” she said.

“Oh, tremendously!” Courfeyrac replied. His enthusiastic expounding on this point carried them all the way to the wine shop and into their seats. It was quite crowded, and they found themselves butted right up against another party. Lesgle noticed one of the young men in the group gradually shifting his attention towards Courfeyrac’s theatrical rhapsodies, and before long, he spoke up.

“You’re not talking about that execrable thing by Delavigne, are you?” he asked. He was big and broad, and his waistcoat was embroidered with some garish pattern that Lesgle couldn’t quite make out in the dim light.

Courfeyrac laughed. “Why, yes, we are, but I quite enjoyed it.” 

The man shook his head and said, “No.”

“No?” Lesgle couldn’t help but laugh, too. “I didn’t think taste was a yes or no question.” 

“No,” the man said again. “It is with something like that— tetchy, mannered, bourgeois rot without a single true feeling in it. But then again, what else can one expect from a play that was written from inside Louis-Philippe’s pocket?” 

Combeferre’s brows lifted. “You’re very free with your opinions.” 

“Is Delavigne in the Duke of Orléans’ pay?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Come, everyone knows that,” Musichetta chimed in. “After the king took away his royal post to punish him for writing a play that was a touch too political, good old Louis-Philippe stepped in.”

“A gesture borne solely of the goodness of his heart, I am sure,” Lesgle said. 

“The good duke is known for his generosity,” Irma agreed, with no less irony. 

“And his love of the country,” Floréal added. “Why, let us not forget, the man was a Jacobin once upon a time!” 

“Now, now,” Combeferre said mildly. 

“ _Now, now_ yourself,” the man from the other group retorted. “What’s your name?”

She smiled prettily. “Floréal.” 

The man turned to Courfeyrac. “And what’s a boy like you doing with a girl called Floréal?”

His tone, at least to Lesgles’ ears, quite plainly suggested an insult, but Courfeyrac took it with a smile. “I think it’s a very nice name indeed. It calls to mind such pleasant things— spring, and hope, and the promise that such fair days will always return— don’t you think?” 

“I do think. I do think that.” He broke into a grin. “You see, we’ve been friends all along and just didn’t know it— that’s what caution gets you, hey?” This last was directed at Combeferre, but he looked to them all as he said, “I’m called Bahorel, by the way.” 

“Now I’m certain that I’ve missed a step,” Lesgle murmured to Musichetta as Bahorel, Floréal, and Combeferre fell into conversation. 

“Haven’t you any political opinions?” Musichetta asked.

“One of the sisters at my school was a devout Bonapartist,” Lesgle replied. “She’d offer a paean to the Emperor at the least prompting— we discovered it was a splendid way to distract her from any lesson or punishment.” 

Musichetta laughed. “That is not quite what I meant.”

“Lovers’ whispers?” Irma said, sidling over. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Musichetta, to Lesgle’s surprise, turned slightly red. “Stop it. You two have gotten acquainted, then?” 

“We haven’t had much chance to speak,” Irma said. “I’m very anxious to know you better. I’ve heard so much about you from Musichetta.” 

“I hope I’ll be able to make my own account of myself,” Lesgle said. “Not that I don’t trust Musichetta’s telling, of course.” 

“I certainly don’t,” Irma said. “She gets so unreliable when she gets fond. I tell her to take more care, but who ever listens to me?” 

“We would, if you ever had anything sensible to say,” Musichetta said. 

“I’m only teasing, don’t be waspish,” Irma said. To Lesgle, she added, “Musichetta and I are dear friends, I promise you.” 

“The dearest, my dear,” Musichetta said dryly. “Now, tell me what you both thought of the play. I’ve only ever seen it from the back.” 

When the evening finally dwindled to a close, at which time it could no longer properly be called evening at all, Courfeyrac hurried up from behind and slung his arm cheerfully around Lesgle’s shoulders as they made their way out the door.

“Next time,” he said, his breath making a wine-scented puff of fog in the cold air, “we must pry you away from your lady friend so we can get to know you properly.” 

“Yes, certainly,” Lesgle agreed. “I would like that very much.” 

“Excellent!” Courfeyrac gave her a slap on the back, then disentangled himself. “I’m off this way, but— well, I shall see you in lectures, we’ll find a time— Floréal, wait!” 

Courfeyrac dashed off, and within a moment, Musichetta had taken his place at Lesgle’s side. Lesgle offered her arm, and Musichetta took it, and off they went on the short and tipsy way back to Musichetta’s flat. 

“Well, then?” Musichetta said as they mounted the stairs. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did,” Lesgle said. “Very much. I ought to listen to you more often.”

“Yes. You absolutely should. And,” she added after a small pause, matched by a beat of hesitation as she put her key in the lock. “I am sorry about Irma.” 

“You needn’t be, I wasn’t troubled at all,” Lesgle said. They stepped through the door. “But it seems that you were?” 

“Well.” Musichetta had turned away, ostensibly to hang up her shawl. “No. Yes and no. She likes to tease. She ought to know me well enough by now to know what I’ll find funny.” 

Lesgle sat down on the sofa to pull off her boots. “You’ve known each other a long time?” 

“Long enough,” Musichetta said. Her shoulders straightened; it seemed to Lesgle she had resolved something. She turned to face her. “She used to live here with me.” 

Lesgle gently set her boot down on the floor. That short sentence was like wiping clean a window: suddenly the picture outside is clear. Certain glances, certain touches, certain moments, a certain haze of something that had hung in the air between them since the day she arrived, since that first day when they talked late into the evening, now all made sense. She realized, at last, why she hadn’t left yet— and more to the point, why Musichetta hadn’t asked. 

She pulled off her other shoe and set it down, too. Then she stood up.

“I see,” she said. 

Musichetta held her gaze levelly. “ _Do_ you see?” 

“I think so,” Lesgle replied. “I don’t know. But then again, I don’t really know anything. I don’t have any political opinions, and before tonight, I had never been to a play. I didn’t understand a single word of what that Bahorel was on about, though he seemed very excited by it. I like your friends, and their friends, very much. And I like you. Not just because you have been so generous to me. I’ve liked you very much ever since we met.” She ran a hand over her head and tried not to look as self-conscious as she felt. “I’m not very good at, at, um— well, I’m very good at talking, actually, but I’m not very good at— saying anything when I do it.”

“I think there was a grain or two of matter in there,” Musichetta said. “But it’s late, and we’ve had a lot to drink, so it’s not entirely your fault. Perhaps we should go to bed.”

Lesgle nodded. “That seems sensible, which would be a change for me. And it’s good to try new things.”

Musichetta laughed and scrubbed her hands over her face. Her thick, dark curls had long since begun working their way loose from their pins, and they bounced across her shoulders as she shook her head.

She said, “And what am I to do when you say a thing like that?” 

“Oh,” Lesgle said. “But that— no, that’s no new thing.”

Musichetta started slightly. “Is it not?”

“Convent school girls, you know,” Lesgle said. She wanted to take a step closer, but she didn’t quite dare. “We can be awfully affectionate.” 

“I can’t tell if you’re telling the truth,” Musichetta said. “But I suppose a lie serves almost the same purpose, doesn’t it.” 

The rustling of Musichetta’s petticoats seemed very loud as she closed the space between them. Lesgle suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands. But when Musichetta rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to Lesgle’s, her hands slid quite naturally down to Musichetta’s waist. 

“Oh,” Musichetta said. “You really have done this before.” 

“I don’t lie,” Lesgle said loftily. “…well, aside from— from the obvious.” 

Musichetta laughed. “Aside from the obvious. Yes, indeed.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “We really should go to bed.” 

Lesgle nodded. She started for the sofa, but Musichetta snagged hold of her sleeve. “You can— I don’t mean like _that_ , but— if you want to spare yourself curling up on that thing. I can’t imagine it’s very comfortable.” 

“It’s perfectly fine,” Lesgle protested. “But— well, I mean— I won’t decline, if you really…” 

Musichetta gave her sleeve a tug. “Come on.” 

In bed, Musichetta drifted off at once. Lesgle usually had no trouble doing the same, but she found herself staring up at the ceiling. It seemed to her, in a brain she readily confessed was stuffed far too full of novels and plays and in this particular moment a fair bit of wine, that this was a night that someday, looking back, she would remember. 

*

“You’ll never guess—” Lesgle began triumphantly as she burst in the door late one night. Musichetta, bent over a line of tidy stitches, wrinkled her nose.

“Oh, lord, you’ve discovered tobacco, haven’t you.”

“I went to convent school, I wasn’t actually a nun— I know what tobacco is. Though—” She couldn’t help puffing her chest out in pride, just a bit. “I _did_ smoke a pipe and I did _not_ utterly disgrace myself.” 

“You are a marvel among men, truly.” 

“I am, I am,” Lesgle agreed. “But that is not why. I have spent an entire evening— a full evening, do you hear? With wine!— in the company of a group of gentlemen.” 

“Don’t you spend every day in a lecture hall filled with men?” Musichetta asked. She began to put her sewing away. Lesgle couldn’t help but wonder whether she deemed conversation too much of a distraction to continue, or whether she’d been using the work as an excuse to wait up until Lesgle got home. 

“Well… yes,” Lesgle was forced to concede. “But that is entirely different. I don’t speak to any of them. This was a purely social affair. Jackets were removed, Musichetta! Surely you see how momentous this occasion is.” 

“Yes, yes, I’m very proud of you. Who was there?” 

“That Courfeyrac, and his friend Combeferre,” Lesgle replied. “Some other friends of theirs— classmates, mostly, I think— all terribly clever fellows.” 

Musichetta looked more interested in this than Lesgle was expecting. “What did you speak about?” 

“Nothing of consequence,” Lesgle said. “The theatre, art, books— oh, you know, Courfeyrac has a friend who is a printer, he says he can get me some work. Writing, not printing. I would crush my fingers if left to a printing press, I’m sure.” 

“You? With money? I wouldn’t know what to think.” Musichetta grinned. “Irma and Floréal are quite fond of Courfeyrac’s friends. I wish I could know them better.” 

“They’re awfully friendly. It was all very…” 

Easy. It was easy to be around them, to talk as much as she wanted and never be shushed, to make any joke that came into her head, to speak as facetiously as she pleased and never be scolded. Though she had never struggled to get along in company, for the first time she could remember, it had felt like there was enough space for her in the room: not just for her long limbs and broad shoulders, but even for unseen, inside parts of herself to unfurl and settle in.

“—it was fun. I hope I’ll see them again.”


	2. André

Spring, 1824.

“Good afternoon, Irma,” Lesgle said when she stepped in and saw the familiar tall, blonde figure standing near the door. “Come calling?” 

“I’m only dropping off a friend.” She nodded towards Musichetta’s chair. A slim, very young man sat there, with black curls tumbling over his forehead, sharp hazel eyes, and a fine black down of a moustache. He looked unwell, an ashen cast to his dark face. 

“So, what happened?” Musichetta asked. The young man looked to Lesgle, then cast Musichetta a sharp, nervous glance— and Lesgle realized suddenly that the young man was also a woman. Lesgle stepped forward with a smile.

“Lesgle,” she said. “Martin. Manon, before. I help Musichetta, you needn’t be afraid of me.” 

“Hmm, help-- is that what you call it now?” Musichetta said. “She does nothing, she is entirely useless, ignore her.”

The woman smiled faintly, then jerked away and began coughing into a handkerchief-- a chesty, painful sound. Without further invitation, Musichetta swept over, knelt down before her, and started unbuttoning the woman’s jacket, her waistcoat. 

“Yes, that’s how I found her,” Irma said. “We could hear her through the walls, he said it was a friend and we ought to check in, and I realized— well, that you might be the one to help.” 

“Oh, there’s no need for all this,” Musichetta said impatiently. She had gotten down to the shirt, and the young woman let Musichetta pull it off to reveal the binding on her breasts, wrapped around tight. “And you wear it at night, I’d wager. You can’t wear it at night. Would you sleep in a corset?”

“I know, but—” These were the first words she’d spoken, her voice cracked and hoarse, but she was quickly cut off as Musichetta (with a bit more force than Lesgle thought strictly necessary) yanked the bindings loose, thus triggering another fit of harsh coughing that left the girl doubled over and breathless, wheezing to catch her breath. Lesgle sat at once beside her and began rubbing her back in smooth, steady circles. 

“Oh, goodness,” Irma murmured, and went to find a glass for water. 

“You’ll have to go without for a few days, a week, until you’re better,” Musichetta said. “Can you do that?” The woman, looking nervous again, shook her head. She pulled her shirt back up over her shoulders and held the front closed. “Why not?”

“My neighbor…” She coughed, just once. “As Mlle. Boissy said, we’re— friends, I think. He bursts in at all hours— he gets drunk and loses his key. That’s why I was wearing it, even when— I was never sure when he might come in.” 

“So why didn’t you turn him away?” Musichetta asked. 

“That’s what I asked,” Irma said as she returned and offered the glass to the girl.

“How could I do that?” She looked genuinely baffled. Lesgle could not help but grin. “Anyway, he has been so kind, in his own sort of way, while I’ve been ill. If I were to shut myself up and refuse to let him in, I don’t think he would leave me in peace until I changed my mind.”

“You could stay here,” Lesgle said. 

Musichetta cast her a dry look. “You should meet this pushy neighbor, Lesgle, it seems you two would get on.” 

“I could never—” The woman protested. “I don’t want—” 

“It’s for the best,” Musichetta said. Lesgle grinned wider, and Musichetta shot back that look that plainly promised that further discussion was to ensue. “As Lesgle can attest, I have a distressing habit of helping boys in need. If you insist on speaking of recompense—” Musichetta went on, perhaps seeing the spark of protest in the young woman’s expression, “—then we can speak in a few days.”

“I don’t believe I heard your name,” Lesgle said as the woman pulled her shirt back on. 

“I’ve been remiss in my introductions,” Irma said dryly. “What a wretched society lady I am.” 

“I decided to call myself André, but everyone I’ve met just calls me Joly anyway— because it’s my surname, not as a compliment,” she said, standing. “But my name is Anne.”

“I shall come to see how you’re doing, Monsieur Joly,” Irma said, laying a hand on Joly’s shoulder. “Until then, I’m afraid I must be going. Thank you, Musichetta— I will see you soon. Lesgle, good day.” 

And with that, Irma was off. Lesgle guided Joly to the remnants of her own nest of a bed on the sofa— unused, now, for some weeks. She helped Joly pull off her boots, then Joly curled at once into the burrow of blankets with an expression of relief. 

“If you need anything…” Lesgle began, but Joly shook her head.

“Just— just to sleep, at the moment,” she said. “I shall insist upon how embarrassed I am to be imposing on you after that.” 

Lesgle laughed. “A very fair bargain. I shall take it up with the landlady and bring you her answer when you’ve woken.” 

Joly laughed too, and coughed, and after a few minutes more, drifted off into a fitful sleep. Musichetta had taken up some sewing while all of this went on, and once Joly was asleep, Lesgle turned back to her with a sheepish smile.

“Oh, don’t pretend to be guilty, you’re entirely pleased with yourself and you know I know it,” Musichetta said. She added, in a false-musing tone, “Do you think Monsieur Laigle believes in love at first sight?”

“What?” Lesgle said, confused. “Why?” 

“Because,” Musichetta said, “You’ve just done an admirable impression of a besotted boy.” 

“Why…” Lesgle grinned. “Are you jealous?” 

“Of which one of you?” 

“You think this Joly _jolie_ , then?” Lesgle asked. Should _she_ feel jealous? It seemed like she ought to, given the little she knew about— things of that nature. But she didn’t. After all, she was thinking exactly the same thing as Musichetta seemed to be. 

Musichetta shrugged. “Call it vanity, but I’ve always liked dark-eyed girls.” 

*

As Musichetta departed for the theater the next day, she left Lesgle with strict orders not to burn anything down or let accidentally let Joly die, in which effort Lesgle swore to do her best. 

“But are you sure I oughtn’t to fetch a doctor?” Lesgle asked. Joly shook her head fervently.

“No, no,” she said. She was still swaddled in the nest of blankets of the sofa. “How could we explain? If it becomes— becomes utterly necessary, then you may, but not until then. But feel, I don’t believe I have a fever at all. It could always return, of course… but, well, we’ll face that when we come to it.” 

“Very well,” Lesgle said, only a bit dubiously, turning back to the piece she was working on for Courfeyrac’s printer friend, a short encyclopedia article. “I will trust your judgment. But if you feel _very_ near to dying, I hope you will tell me so. For that is expressly against Musichetta’s orders, and I do so hate when she is cross with me.” 

“You are very good friends, you and she?” Joly asked, then let out a wheezy half-laugh. “That’s a very silly question, I suppose, as you live together. But I wasn’t sure… maybe it was only a practical arrangement.” 

“Musichetta is— well, she’s the kindest soul in the world, deep down,” Lesgle said, turning back again.

“I’m very sorry,” Joly said. “You’re trying to work, aren’t you.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Lesgle said. “That is— my task for the afternoon is to look after you. This can wait.” 

“It’s not important?”

Lesgle shrugged. “It’s just to make a bit of money.”

“That sounds important…” 

“It isn’t, I promise.” And to prove it, she set down the pen and dragged her chair over to the sofa. A bashfully pleased expression flickered across Joly’s face, just for an instant before she managed to hide it. She resettled herself on the sofa, laid her head down on the pillow.

“Why are you here, then? In Paris?” Joly waved a hand towards Lesgle. “Like— this?” 

“Why, because I realized how very handsome I would be if I dressed this way,” Lesgle replied at once. Joly smiled. Perhaps it was the fluttering feeling that smile inspired that caused her to press on, to tell the truth instead: “I had nothing else to do. I didn’t like the thought of the life I would have— any of the lives I could have— if I stayed where and as I was.” 

She could see Joly drifting back towards sleep, and she knew she ought to tell her to leave off talking and rest, but instead she asked, “Why are you here?” 

“I want to be a doctor,” Joly said. “Perhaps an ironic ambition in my current state.” 

Lesgle laughed and hunched forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “Well, I’ve been assured doctors are human, too.” 

She reached out and brushed a stray curl of hair away from Joly’s forehead. As soon as it was done she grew self-conscious— a gesture far too intimate, surely. But Joly, sleepy-eyed, reached up and mirrored the gesture, brushing her fingers along Lesgle’s forehead, up against where her hairline used to be. 

“Why did you cut it all off?” she asked. 

“I didn’t,” she said. “It fell out. I don’t know why.” 

“Oh, that’s fascinating,” Joly murmured, and Lesgle couldn’t help but laugh. Joly’s fingers dragged lazily off Lesgle’s forehead and down her cheek. She was glad that Joly’s eyes had drifted shut again, that she could not see her generally rosy complexion grow just a touch pinker.

Joly mumbled something indistinct. Lesgle thought perhaps it was just half-asleep babbling, but Joly repeated it, a little louder, though her eyes were still closed: “What color was it?” 

“Oh! It— it was red.” 

Joly opened one eye, just a crack, then closed it again. “Mm. I believe there are people who would rather be bald than red-haired, you know.”

Lesgle turned away and tried not to laugh too loudly. But Joly certainly heard, because as she turned back, Lesgle saw her smile.

*

After a week, Joly bundled herself up and the two of them set off on a brief expedition to the bakery around the corner. Even this proved slightly overambitious, especially as it was a particularly chilly early spring day, and on the way back, on the second floor they paused for Joly to catch her breath. The porter bustled past, broom in hand, and into one of the rooms— empty, Lesgle saw as the door swung open. 

“Looking for a new tenant?” she asked cheerfully. “Where’d this one go?”

“Law student,” the porter said. “Back home to Nice to practice.” 

“Oh, I’m from Nice,” Joly said absently. She drifted towards the door, then turned to the porter and asked, “May we look inside?” 

The porter shrugged and moved aside. 

“Now, why are we looking?” Lesgle asked as they stepped in. 

“Just curious,” Joly replied. She unwound her scarf and stuffed it in her pocket as she began to walk the length of the room. It was a nice flat, large and well-lit by the afternoon sun. Three rooms in all, the main one quite large. The windows faced away from the street, and in the corner, there was a fairly new-looking stove.

“Imagine what a mess Musichetta would make with all this space,” Lesgle said, and Joly laughed. “Curiosity satisfied?” 

Joly crossed over to the window and peered out, then turned back and said, “Yes. I suppose so.” 

Later that evening, when Musichetta returned home, Joly said, “Did you see the empty room on the second floor?” 

“Is one empty?” Musichetta asked. “The doors were all shut when I passed.” 

“We poked our heads in, nosy neighbors that we are,” Lesgle said. “Very big, very nice.” 

“I may take it,” Joly said, abruptly enough that Lesgle suspected she had been mustering the courage to say it. 

“Oh, how nice to—” Musichetta began, but Joly interrupted: “I— I wonder if you might consider coming with me.” 

Musichetta’s hand stilled mid-stroke with her brush; Lesgle blotted the word she was writing. They both looked up, and exchanged a startled look.

“What, you mean…?”

“I mean, I would let the room, and you would… join me. It’s not much more than the room I had before,” she added, looking faintly abashed to have to speak of such things. “And… and I have realized, these past few weeks, how terribly good it would be to have people at home who I trust, and with whom I can be entirely… honest.” 

There was a small pause. Then Musichetta said, “People will think I’m your mistress, you know.” 

“Oh…” Joly’s brow creased in concern. “I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“I don’t mind,” Musichetta said. “It would keep men away.”

“Do you want to do that?” Joly asked. “Keep men away?” 

“They can be awfully persistent.” She sounded entirely nonchalant. 

“But really,” Lesgle broke in. “This is awfully generous…” 

“It’s no more than I did for you,” Musichetta said indignantly, swiping at Lesgle with her hairbrush. “That’s gratitude for you.”

As she leaned out of the way of the blow, Lesgle shook her head. “You’ll see the room and you’ll feel entirely unworthy of such luxury as well.” She turned back to Joly “…are you really sure?” 

“Entirely,” she said. She had such a sweet, earnest face, and no matter how hard she looked, Lesgle could find no hint of uncertainty or pretense in it. Even Joly’s sarcasm (and one had to become at least conversant in sarcasm, living with Musichetta and Lesgle) had a perennial edge of gentleness to it. “I would give far more than money to true friends.”

*

The money came from Anne Joly’s aunt, a wealthy widow with no children whose radical sensibilities and love of adventure novels made her absolutely thrilled to be her niece’s accomplice, and her financial support. 

Her black hair and olive complexion came from her mother, who came in turn from Cairo. 

Her love of science came from her father, she supposed. He’d been a naturalist with Napoleon’s scientific corps, had brought home a wife from Egypt, and had raised their children to question continually, to collect insects, to contemplate magnetism, to read about anatomy, and yet was surprised (and in no small measure dismayed) when his only daughter announced that she wished to study medicine. 

Joly, to her lasting embarrassment, pretended heartbreak to escape. She engaged in a flirtation with a young man known throughout the town to be untrustworthy, and when he inevitably did badly by her (though of course she never let it get _too_ far), she feigned immense distress that only change of locale— some time spent with her aunt, perhaps, a chance to meet new young men— could cure. 

At her aunt’s, just outside Paris, she bought clothes, cut her hair, and devoted herself to studying. When she was admitted to the medical school at last, in fairly short order, met her talkative neighbor, fell ill— and here she was. 

She and Lesgle went together to her old flat to collect her things. It had been nearly three weeks since she’d left without warning, though the portress’s irritation was quickly assuaged when Joly settled her accounts without bartering or argument. 

On the stairs up to the flat, they ran into Joly’s neighbor. He looked momentarily startled at the sight of her (well, him, as far as he knew), but he soon let the expression slip into a sardonic smile.

“Well, well, Monsieur Joly,” he said. “And here I’d given you up for dead.”

“Nothing as serious as that,” Joly said brightly. “Near death, possibly— one can never be too sure— I was taken quite poorly when I was out one day, but had the immense good fortune to run into an old friend, who has been tending to me. May I introduce Martin Laigle?” 

Lesgle, thoroughly impressed to discover that Joly was a smooth and easy liar (and a touch abashed that she had ever expected otherwise), stepped forward to offer a hand, which the neighbor took. His hands were big, rough, ink- and tobacco-stained, and easily dwarfed Lesgle’s. He was not a man who could be called handsome by anyone’s estimation (and as Lesgle had been neither pretty as a woman nor was particularly handsome as a man, she felt well-suited to judge), and there was still that sharp edge to his smile.

“And this is Grantaire,” Joly went on. “My neighbor. –well, former neighbor, I suppose. I am sorry to say I will be moving out.” 

“Alas,” Grantaire said, pressing a hand to his heart. “Though I suppose I cannot blame you. Mère Lefebvre grows fouler as the weather grows fairer, I find. She longs for the wintry months she is named for, perhaps— you are lucky to be well out of it.” 

“We will just have to find other excuses to become acquainted,” Lesgle said. “Tonight at dinner, perhaps?” 

“An old friend, you say?” Grantaire said. “You don’t sound like a southerner.” 

“My family moved,” she said cheerfully. “What do you say?” 

“I have never been known to turn down an invitation to dinner,” Grantaire said. “Why should I begin now?” 

The intended dinner party quickly expanded, as parties so often do, with Courfeyrac encountered and invited later that afternoon, and with Grantaire arriving in the company of Irma and Floréal. At this last addition, Lesgle cast a curious glance to Courfeyrac who said, “Oh, we have parted company.”

“Indeed,” Floréal agreed, but they greeted one another with a kiss on the cheek even so. 

“I am to paint them,” Grantaire said grandly, gesturing to the ladies, though his lofty tone was somewhat undercut by Irma’s snort of laughter. Grantaire was undeterred, however— perhaps aided in this, Lesgle couldn’t help but think, by the fact that he already appeared to be slightly drunk. “Floréal will be liberty. Irma, reason. Allegorically speaking,” he added, somewhat unnecessarily. 

“Grantaire has never finished a painting in all the time I have known him,” Irma said. 

“I am the despair of my studio,” Grantaire agreed. “Indeed, I intend to leave it. Well, Gros intends that I should leave it, and who am I to protest?” 

“And what will you pursue then?” Courfeyrac asked, pouring a little more wine all around. “Does all of your work feature such allegories?” 

“I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree on that subject,” Irma said. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Courfeyrac said innocently. “I only wished to ask— I have some friends who are very interested in allegorical paintings.” 

“I have never much liked such works, I must confess,” Joly said cheerfully. “Painted as a woman, France never does look the way I expect her to.” 

“Why?” Courfeyrac asked. “How do you expect her to look?” 

“I don’t quite know,” Joly said. “But she always seems ever so stately and serious— and while France is glorious, of course, it never seems quite— right, to me.” 

“Stately,” Courfeyrac echoed thoughtfully, but Irma was rolling her eyes. “Well, goodness only knows what France will look like a week from now.”

“You are referring to the elections?” Joly asked. 

“Indeed,” Courfeyrac said darkly. 

“Oh, you are one of those!” Grantaire cried. “One who will wail and gnash his teeth in surprise and shock that a group of old fools have acted foolishly. Rich men, voting out of self-interest! Can it be! Who ever heard the like!” 

“I did not claim to be surprised,” Courfeyrac protested. “I _am_ surprised to find myself hoping that King Louis’s health holds, at least for the present.” 

“For the present! Perhaps I will start a new painting,” Grantaire said. “Would you like to stand for Brutus, Irma your sweet Portia?” 

“There now, Latin was always my preference,” Lesgle said. “And Brutus. He always did strike me as the more trustworthy fellow, in the end.” 

“Trustworthy! I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him called that,” Floréal laughed. “A trustworthy assassin?” 

“At least he stabbed him in the front,” Lesgle said cheerfully. 

“I must speak to Musichetta,” Irma said. “Dreadful innocents, the both of you. She must see to it.” 

“ _Both_ of you?” Courfeyrac’s brows shot up, and he couldn’t suppress his grin. Even Grantaire looked faintly impressed. “It seems I’ve missed something, too. Gentlemen, _really?_ ” 

“Um?” Joly said, practically choking on her sip of wine.

“You know my shameful state of poverty,” Lesgle said, calmly clapping Joly on the back. “How could I afford to impress a girl like Musichetta?” 

“She doesn’t have such expensive tastes,” Courfeyrac said. “Or so it seems to me. Though while we’re on that subject— it may be that I have a job for you, from another friend of mine, Laigle. Might we speak about it later?” 

“Yes, of course,” Lesgle said. There was something a touch odd about Courfeyrac’s air, but she supposed he simply didn’t wish to disrupt the party with talk of printers and money. So she thought no more of it, until Courfeyrac tapped her on the elbow at the end of the night, as they were all readying themselves to return home. 

“If you have a moment?” he said. Lesgle glanced at Joly, who gave a cheerful nod and called over, “Oh, take your time!” 

Courfeyrac drew her aside, back towards the table they had just vacated. Lesgle laughed. “ _Is_ this about an article? Or something more delicate?” 

Courfeyrac laughed, too. “No, no, I just… well, you know. Competition between printers and all, it’s… an assignment that oughtn’t to be widely known. It’s not entirely unlike what you’ve been doing before, just… well, if you might pull together some facts, some snippets, into a short essay, for a pamphlet? Only— only with a bit more of your own opinions on the matter than you’re used to. A little less objective, you know.” He grinned. Lesgle rarely gave much thought to the difference in age between herself and Courfeyrac, all things considered, but in this moment— in his nervous earnestness papered over with cheerful bravado, he looked not a second older than his nearly-eighteen years. “I am quite sure you’re up to that.” 

“Yes, alright,” Lesgle said. “You do realize you’re being very mysterious?”

“I don’t mean to be,” Courfeyrac said. “Well… I don’t entirely mean to be. Just— let’s meet up after our next lecture, eh? And I’ll introduce you to a friend of mine who will be able to give you the information you’ll need.” 

Lesgle nodded. “If I’m ever to know what on earth you’re talking about, it seems I must agree.”

Courfeyrac clapped her on the arm, his grin broadening. “Excellent! Excellent. I’ll see you then. Give my best to Musichetta.” 

“I shall!” Lesgle said as they both made their way towards the door. When she reached Joly, who was standing just outside, she slung an arm around her shoulders and amended, “Well, _we_ shall.” 

Courfeyrac shook his head in mock dismay. “Really. The depravity. I am ashamed to associate with you. I will take my leave at once.” 

“What pleasant company,” Joly said cheerfully as they set off. “I shouldn’t have doubted whether you’d get along with Grantaire, I am beginning to think you could get along with absolutely anyone— but I do always worry.” 

“That’s me,” Lesgle agreed. “Universally agreeable, entirely unobjectionable. Rather dubious living situation aside. –I hope you aren’t too cross about that, by the way,” she added. “There in the moment, I couldn’t think of any better— after all, we are all living together, it wouldn’t do to try to lie about that.”

“No, no,” Joly said. “You did far better than I managed to. Thank you. You know, it’s very complicated, having friends.” She sighed. “I _suppose_ it’s worth the trouble.” 

“Only barely,” Lesgle agreed, shaking her head. Lesgle had her hands shoved in her pockets: Joly, laughing, slipped her hand into the crook of Lesgle’s arm. Joly instinctively took the wall of her, Lesgle noticed, as a lady would with a gentleman. 

Joly had spent so much more time out in the world than she had— she had such little habits, ones Lesgle had never had much chance to learn, with her life split between her childhood and early womanhood in the convent, and then the brief years doing her awkward best to be the lady of her ailing father’s household. 

“I don’t find myself thinking of it much anymore,” she said in answer to her own thoughts, into the silence that had fallen comfortably between them. Though she didn’t elaborate, she knew that Joly would know what she was referring to. “Do you?” 

“No,” Joly said. “Well, yes and no. When I’m by myself— when I have nothing better to think about— but I haven’t had to be alone since meeting Musichetta and you. When I’m actually out and about, or in class, or studying— it seems like the most natural thing in the world. Then, I don’t doubt for a second that I’m just where I ought to be.” 

Lesgle nodded, and tucked her arm in a little closer to her side. Joly didn’t pull her hand away. “Yes. That’s just what I think, too.” 

*

“Oh,” Joly said worriedly, surveying the mess of things they’d moved from her and Musichetta’s former flats. “I hadn’t given any thought at all to the arrangement of the bedrooms.”

Lesgle avoided looking at Musichetta as she said, “You must have your own, of course. It’s your flat, after all.”

“No,” Joly said, with surprising sharpness. “I will not have it thought of that way. It is ours, all of ours.” 

“How idealistic,” Musichetta said. “You haven’t been reading Saint-Simon, have you?”

Joly’s face lit up. “Why, in fact, I have! Well, not lately. My father is a great admirer.”

Musichetta looked quite startled. “Is he really?” 

“Oh, yes,” Joly said cheerfully. “He is a scientist, after all-- how could he resist such ideas? That science and industry will guide the future?” 

“And he admired the writings so much, he passed them on to his daughter?” 

“Papa just liked to see us reading,” Joly said placidly. “He didn’t pay much attention to what. I suppose he may regret that now.” 

“I hope he doesn’t,” Musichetta said. “But to return to the question at hand— it seems the most logical way to divide up the space.”

“We could alternate,” Joly said brightly. “We could make a, a schedule, so we might each have a turn having a bed to ourselves. You know, it could be an interesting experiment—to see if the different directions of the windows— or the differing placement of the rooms along the poles— oh, I ought to write this down, I would need to take some measurements…” 

“Do they cover that sort of thing at the medical school?” Lesgle asked, not bothering to hide her grin.

“No,” Joly said as she dug through a trunk for something to write with. “These are my own ideas. They’re, ah… not widely accepted, but… well, the same was once said of many things we all acknowledge as facts today!” 

“Then I think it sounds like a capital idea,” Lesgle said. “And to begin— Musichetta and I will share?” 

Joly, scribbling in a small notebook, looked up with a frown. “—you’re counting on my forgetting about this, aren’t you.” 

Lesgle did her best to look innocent, and shrugged. 

“I hate to leave you in the midst of this pressing debate,” Musichetta said. “And in the midst of all this unpacking— but I’m afraid I must be off for work.” 

“It’s just like you, to leave us in a time of crisis,” Lesgle said with a sigh. “Very well, goodbye.”

“I have faith in you both,” Musichetta replied solemnly. She clapped a hand to her heart in mute expression of this profound faith, and then took her leave. 

“Do you think we ought to arrange her things in the same mess she had them in upstairs?” Lesgle asked when Musichetta was gone. “I worry if they’re organized, she might become confused.”

Joly laughed. “Well, we certainly won’t finish it all today, so I suppose we can leave that decision to her.” 

“Yes, very logical. From such a scientific mind, I would expect no less,” Lesgle said with a nod. She turned back to the trunk she’d been working her way through, and companionable silence fell between them. 

After a few minutes, the sound of Joly’s bustling suddenly stopped, and Lesgle glanced over to see her perched on top of one of the trunks, inspecting her tongue in a small mirror that had not yet been hung. 

“Are you not feeling well?” she asked. 

“I don’t know,” Joly said. She set the mirror down and combed a hand anxiously through her curls. “I feel— out of sorts, I suppose. Perhaps we should pause for a little while.” 

“Very gladly.” Lesgle set down the stack of books and pamphlets she’d been sorting through. She plucked a volume off the top and moved over to the sofa. “Come. Sit and read to me, take your mind off of whatever is troubling you.” 

“Do you think that will help?” Joly asked uncertainly. But she did go take a seat beside Lesgle. 

Lesgle handed the book over. “Well, it surely can’t hurt.” 

Joly opened the book and Lesgle curled up at her side, but after a few minutes, Joly set it down once more. She had a restless, anxious air that even Lesgle couldn’t help but notice. 

“This isn’t working,” she said. 

Lesgle sat up. “You don’t look unwell.” She pressed the back of her hand against Joly’s cheek. “And you don’t feel— are you blushing?” 

Joly quickly looked away, and Lesgle lowered her hand. “Joly?” 

“I thought it was just— a natural part of this whole charade, that occasionally I would feel— off-kilter. Like I… But sometimes, I want to… it’s not that, it’s different than that.”

Lesgle chew her lip thoughtfully. A faint inkling was forming in the back of her mind, though she would be the first to admit it was possible her hopes were unduly influencing her guesses. Oh, well, she thought— might as well risk it. 

“I’m sure you know me better than to call it vanity if I ask… does this have anything to do with me?” Joly hesitated, then nodded. “And Musichetta?” Another nod. Lesgle wanted to laugh, but she feared it would seem unkind. “Haven’t you ever fancied someone before?” 

Joly looked startled. “Men, yes. I didn’t think that— is that--?”

“It could be,” Lesgle said. “You could try. And see.” 

“Try--?”

“—would you like to kiss me?” 

Joly was silent for several moments. Then she nodded. “Yes. I would like to do that.” 

And she did. 

“Well?” Lesgle said. “Surely a good scientist must share her findings.”

“I— hm,” Joly said.

Lesgle couldn’t help but laugh. 

That night, however, Joly in one room and herself and Musichetta in the other, Lesgle found herself embarrassed. 

“I think I ought to tell you something,” she said uncertainly as she helped Musichetta unbutton her dress. 

“Yes?” 

“I…” Her fingers fumbled, and she looked down. “Well, I kissed Joly today.” 

“Oh, did you.” Musichetta turned. She didn’t seem upset. “I was starting to wonder. I’ll assume it went well enough.”

“Yes,” Lesgle said, and laughed. “Yes, it did. You don’t—mind?” 

“Mind?” Musichetta shrugged. “No, not at all. As long that means you don’t mind if I try.” 

Lesgle considered this. “You know, I suspect she won’t object.” 

* 

On the appointed day, Lesgle loitered outside after the day’s lecture had finished. Though she had spied Courfeyrac at the beginning of the class, in the rush to leave at the end, she’d lost track of him. After a few minutes, however, he came bustling over, looking uncharacteristically harried.

“There you are! I find one, I lose the other— here, come with me,” he said, hardly pausing to make sure Lesgle was following before turning back the way he’d come. Lesgle hurried along at his heels. 

“The king is very sick, you know,” Courfeyrac said suddenly as they made their way out of the lecture hall. 

“Oh— is he?” Lesgle said. “That is— I suppose I’d heard… what does that have to do with your friend?”

“Oh, it was just on my mind,” Courfeyrac said lightly. “Here we are! Hallo!” 

A young man was leaning against a wall not far away. At the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice, he looked up, then came towards them. 

“Right! Here we are, finally,” Courfeyrac said. “This, as promised, is my friend Laigle.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” the young man said. He was startlingly pretty, so much so that Lesgle was almost tempted to suspect he was another patron of Musichetta’s. His manner was reserved, though perfectly polite. “Courfeyrac has sung your praises. A fine writer, he says.”

“I would never claim it myself,” Lesgle said. “But I am flattered that he has said so.”

“I have found that Courfeyrac does not flatter,” the young man said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded-over sheaf of paper, which he offered to Lesgle. Lesgle took it and began to open it, but he held up a hand. “I would wait. Until you’re home. It’s just some notes, some facts and figures Courfeyrac and I have compiled, with some help from others— Combeferre, you know him, don’t you?”

“I know it sounds rather vague,” Courfeyrac said. “But we don’t wish to bias you. We’re rather keen to see what you make of it. And of course, if you have any questions at all, or wish to speak about any of it…”

“Then I’ll see what I can do,” Lesgle said, slipping the pages into her pocket. “I’m sorry, I don’t think Courfeyrac mentioned your name.” 

“Not at all.” The young man offered his hand. “I am called Enjolras.” 

*

When Lesgle arrived home, she was surprised to see that the sitting room was empty. She frowned and eased the door shut. She took Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s papers out of her coat pocket before shrugging the coat off. What sounded like a muffled voice came suddenly from Musichetta’s room, and she glanced sharply over, startled. Perhaps Musichetta had been asleep? It was unlike her, but certainly possible. 

Was that a thump? And then—yes, quite plainly, Musichetta’s voice. Then the door swung open, and Musichetta herself strode out, looking distinctly disheveled. 

“Hello,” Lesgle said, amused. “What’s going on?” 

“Joly is hiding,” Musichetta says. “She’s convinced you will be angry.” 

“No!” Joly’s protestation floated out from within the bedroom. Her head then appeared around the door. “That’s— no, I— I just…” She trailed off, looking helplessly between the two of them. “This isn’t at all what I’m like. I’ve always been a very— a very loyal person—”

“And who on earth is accusing you of being disloyal?” Lesgle asked. 

“Well,” Joly said, looking flustered. “I’ve— spent time— with both of you. I must be proving disloyal to _someone_.” 

“But so have both of us,” Musichetta said. “If you don’t mind, I certainly don’t mind. Lesgle?”

“No,” Lesgle said. “I don’t mind at all.” 

“Oh,” Joly said. Then again, frowning, “Oh.” 

“Do you mind?” Musichetta prompted once it became clear Joly was not going to say more. 

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t. Only— well, this does nothing at all to simplify the situation with the rooms, does it.”


	3. Patria

Summer, 1824.

“I have to ask,” Lesgle said as she slid into the seat opposite Courfeyrac and Enjolras in the café where they generally met— if the past few weeks could truly be called _generally_. “Do you plan to do anything with all these things I’ve written? Or was it just some sort of test?” 

Courfeyrac laughed. “Would you like us to do something with them?” 

“I’d hate to think of the work going to waste,” Lesgle replied. “Enlightening as it has been.”

“As it happens, we have a willing printer very readily to hand,” Courfeyrac said, glancing towards Enjolras with a grin. “It wasn’t all pretense.” 

“I’m glad to hear it. I can’t abide pretense,” Lesgle said solemnly, folding her hands in her lap. She looked to Enjolras, too. “You know a printer?”

“I am a printer,” he replied. “My aunt owns a shop.” 

“They made their fortune licensing a very pretty typeface,” Courfeyrac said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper, the perfect imitation of a society madam. Enjolras did not look amused. “But they made their reputation printing— well, things some others won’t.” 

“If you wish to publish,” Enjolras said, “a pseudonym would be wise.”

“Oh, Laigle already has one of those,” Courfeyrac laughed. 

Lesgle tilted her head. “Do I?” Then she brightened. “Oh, yes, in fact, I do. You may sign me as Bossuet de Meaux. –is that the way of it, then? Has every one got secret names?” 

“Perhaps we should,” Courfeyrac said. “Send everyone looking for the wrong person when they hear them. Bossuet the devout royalist… I’ll call myself Citizen Capet… what do you think, Enjolras, you could be Apollo.” 

“If you’d like to continue the conversation,” Enjolras said, pointedly ignoring this suggestion, “we’re gathering a… group of friends. In a café not far from here, there’s a room in the back.” 

Courfeyrac, unwounded by this dismissal, added, “Quite a nice place, I think you’ll like it. Bring your friend, if you wish— Joly. He’s at the medical school, Combeferre has met him too,” he added, this to Enjolras.

“I’ll see what Joly thinks of it,” Lesgle said. “That is, I’m confident he’ll be— amenable, in principle, at least.” 

“Most think Louis won’t last the summer,” Enjolras said. His voice dropped, his blue eyes grew fierce. “I will never mourn the death of a king, but the timing is worse than ever. It will not be very long before all the _principle_ in the world will not be enough.” 

“Right,” Lesgle said, more than a bit taken aback. Courfeyrac, though silent, matched Enjolras’s fervent expression spark for spark. “Well, I’ll… I’ll speak to Joly about it, shall I.” 

*

It was, perhaps, not quite the long and deep conversation Enjolras and Courfeyrac would have imagined, or desired. And, Lesgle reflected, they likely would not have pictured Joly and Lesgle in bed as it took place. 

“It’s very kind of them to ask you,” Joly said as she tried to tug back her own fair share of the blanket, an effort more a matter of principle than need, for even the summer nights were very hot. 

“I imagine they’d ask anyone they thought would be sympathetic,” Lesgle said. 

“Not at all!” Joly rolled onto her side and sat halfway up, propping her head up on her hand. “It must be someone they trust, someone they consider clever and reliable.” 

“Then they think the same of you,” Lesgle pointed out. 

“Then we will both be flattered.” 

“Be flattered and accept?” 

“Well.” Joly scratched her nose. 

“Because, of course, they aren’t exactly right to trust us, in some sense. Are they.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Joly said, looking a bit wounded. “It’s only one thing, and it has nothing to do with… why, if anything, it’s proof at how very good we’ll be at keeping secrets. Not that they know that.” 

“Why—” Lesgle sat up too. “You’re inclined to join them, then?” 

“I don’t know,” Joly confessed. “There are times I think… when I see people in the hospitals, hear about cases in my lectures, and I think… I wonder, even as a doctor, what can one possibly _do?_ There must be more to… but I don’t know. Are you not? Inclined?”

“I— am and am not,” Lesgle said. “I don’t know, either. I feel the same as you at times, of course, about— Lord, the law, the more I learn of it the more I think it’s mostly monstrous, but… I’m very happy to write for them, and to talk to them, but… I don’t know if I have the makings of a revolutionary. As you say. We have quite a lot of secrets to keep already.” 

“Yes, precisely,” Joly said, sounding a bit relieved. “I don’t disagree, not at all, but…” 

“But,” Lesgle agreed with a nod. A silence fell between them, and in it, Lesgle could hear the sound of the key in the front door. “Here’s Musichetta.” 

“Oh, good!” Joly said brightly. “I want to hear how the new play is. Musichetta! We’re in here!” 

* 

It had been a close, sticky summer so far, and this continued unabated. One evening found Irma and Floréal over to join in draping themselves on the couch and complaining of the heat.

“I think I miss skirts,” Joly cried at last.

“I will trade you for three petticoats, and you may reconsider that opinion,” Irma replied. 

“It’s hotter in here than out on the street,” Floréal said. “Come, the sun is starting to set, it’ll cool off a bit in the air. Let’s go somewhere, go walking, have a bit of wine.” 

“I would rather expire of the heat in my own flat than out in the street, though,” Lesgle said, though she did sit up and reach for her shoes. 

“Not at all, not at all,” Musichetta said. “You’ll spare your friends so much trouble if you die out of doors.” 

“A fine point, my dear,” Lesgle said. “I would hate to impose on those dearest to me. In the street it is.”

“Where shall we go?” Irma asked.

“Combeferre mentioned he’d be in the neighborhood tonight,” Joly said. “We might seek him out.” 

“Oh, yes, let’s,” Musichetta says. “He always has something diverting to talk about.” 

“Though sometimes the diversion is just trying to make sense of what he’s saying,” Irma muttered, and Floréal laughed. Musichetta rolled her eyes and Irma protested, “I mock my own ignorance! He reads more than anyone I’ve ever met has managed to find the time to.” 

“Maybe he makes it up,” Floréal said thoughtfully. “All these writers everyone has halfway heard of but no one has read— he knows there is no one who can possibly correct him, so he just makes up their arguments entirely.” 

Speculation on this subject carried them out the door and into the street. Musichetta took Lesgle’s arm, while Irma and Floréal fell into step on either side of Joly. 

“Did Combeferre tell you where he would be?” Irma asked.

“A café called the Musain, he said,” Joly replied. “He frequents it regularly, it seems, so I suppose it’s very good.” 

“Ah, I’ve seen it, I think,” Floréal said. “I believe it’s just this way.” 

Before long, this guess was confirmed by the appearance of Courfeyrac, rounding a corner side-by-side with Enjolras. Seeing Joly and Lesgle, he greeted them with an eager wave, and bounded away from Enjolras’s side to meet them. Enjolras followed at a rather more sedate pace.

“How do you do, how do you do! Accompanied by a proper bevy of beautiful ladies, as ever— and as improbably as ever. How _do_ you two do it? Ladies, how do you do.” He offered a bow. 

“Don’t despair, Courfeyrac, you have very fair company yourself,” Musichetta said. Enjolras, entering into the ensuing laughter, looked faintly bewildered. 

“How do you do, Enjolras,” Lesgle managed. “Pardon us. How do you do?”

“Very well,” Enjolras said. “Are you joining us this evening?” 

“I hardly knew there was an us to join tonight,” Joly said. “But we’d be very glad to. We’d gone in search of Combeferre, but we will be happily diverted.” 

“It’s no diversion at all!” Courfeyrac said. “He is joining us as well. You see, we have both happened upon our ideal company. You must obey the hinting of fate and join us.” 

“I expect this will not exactly be the calming conversation for a hot night that we were looking for,” Irma remarked as they set off once more. 

“Perhaps not,” Courfeyrac agreed cheerfully. “But there will be more hot summers to come. I consider it practice.” 

The Café Musain (whose location, it transpired, Floréal had remembered quite correctly) looked entirely ordinary from without— and from within, save a little door to a back room, towards which Enjolras and Courfeyrac immediately headed. They slowed as they approached, then paused before the closed door.

“Well, ladies,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. “I’m afraid this is where we must leave you.” 

“Is it?” Musichetta asked with genuine surprise. Lesgle and Joly exchanged an uncertain glance. 

“Well,” Lesgle said. “I’m afraid we’re promised to the ladies tonight, so— oh!” She jerked her arm away as Musichetta gave it a sharp pinch. 

“Don’t be silly,” Musichetta said in a cheerful voice that quite belied the savage pinch of a moment before. “You boys must have your meetings. We are quite capable of entertaining ourselves.” 

“But—”

“Oh, come, no need to play at protesting,” she interrupted. Irma and Floréal were already moving towards the front door. “Go on, go on.”

So Lesgle and Joly, more than a little bewildered, went. And when they arrived back at home, Musichetta was waiting for them with an eager expression. 

“Well, how did it go?” she asked. “What was discussed?” 

“Various things,” Joly replied, flopping down onto the sofa. “There was a deal of discussion of a girl Courfeyrac is seeing. And some fellows from the law school told a very funny story about one of their professors—” 

“But _politics_ ,” Musichetta broke in impatiently. “What of that?” 

“Oh,” Joly said. 

“They spoke of—you remember that fellow Bahorel? We met him once,” Lesgle said. “One of the law students mentioned how he was caught up in some to-do back in ’22. So Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre decided to meet with him to speak about it.”

“And will you go as well?” she asked.

“I hadn’t thought to,” Lesgle said, glancing at Joly, who shrugged.

“No, nor I.” 

“You both—” But Musichetta bit off the rest of the sentence and turned away. 

“What?” Lesgle prompted.

“Nothing,” Musichetta replied. “You should both do as you please, of course.” Catching them exchanging a glance out of the corner of her eye, she turned back and said, irritated, “Oh, you really are men now. Sharing looks— _what have we done, what should we say?_ ” 

“Well…” Lesgle said, having to fight the urge to look over at Joly. “Are you upset with us?”

“—no,” she said after a small pause. “I’m not. I oughtn’t to be. I just… don’t understand, I suppose. You’re interested in their work, I know you are.”

“Yes, of course,” Joly said. “But there’s a difference between…” 

“—writing and doing?”

“Writing is doing!” Lesgle protested. 

“Yes,” Musichetta conceded. “But it’s not… you have the power to do more. Can’t you see it? I know plenty of women who have published under a pseudonym, but none of them would be allowed into that room. Except you.” 

Lesgle looked down at her hands, unsure, for once, what to say. Into the silence, Musichetta sighed. “Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s what I would do, if I were brave enough. I suppose that doesn’t mean you have to.” 

*

An insistent pounding at the door was revealed to be Courfeyrac, who immediately assumed a languid manner quite contrasting his frantic knocking. He swept off his hat and made a playful bow. 

“Ah, my dear friends, may I come in?” But the question was no more than a formality: he was already stepping inside, and shutting the door behind him. 

“How do you do?” Lesgle asked, amused. “You seem in quite a rush.

“Yes, well, funny thing,” Courfeyrac said. “I had some plans, but they’ve gone all awry. And as I happened to be in the neighborhood, I thought I’d come see if perhaps you’d be willing to help.” 

“Anything, of course,” Joly said, at which Courfeyrac laughed.

“Well, hear what it is first.” Joly gestured for him to take a seat, but he shook his head. “I can only stay a moment. Here’s the trouble: Enjolras has a box. Some things he printed. We have reason to think it’s very important that it be removed from the shop today, and I was on my way to do just that, but—” He glanced towards the door. “I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d gained an extra shadow or two.” 

“You want us to go to the shop?” Lesgle asked. 

“I’ll go out first, hopefully divert my pursuers,” Courfeyrac said. “Then after a reasonable interval, you can go out. You know the place, I remember we’ve gone there together. –you can say no,” he added after a small pause. “I can’t promise… well, anything. It may be the simplest thing in the world and all go splendidly, and it may not. You don’t have to say yes.” 

“Yes,” Joly said before Lesgle could speak, could look to her to gauge her opinion. “How could we decline to help a friend?

“We’ll wait, oh… fifteen minutes, after you go?” Lesgle asked. Her heart was starting to race, though nothing had happened yet. “Would that be sufficient?” 

“Yes,” Courfeyrac said. He looked terribly relieved, and reached forward to clap them both on the shoulder. “Oh, yes, that should be sufficient. I cannot thank you enough. I’ll come to you again tonight, so you can report! Oh, thank you, my friends.” 

It did not look like a day for being secretive: getting on into September, it was warm yet, but not as oppressively hot as the rest of the summer had been. The sun was bright, the day was clear. Everyone was moving languidly in the heat, and it took some effort for Joly and Lesgle to calm themselves enough to match this easy general pace, to not stand out. 

“I hope we’ve come quickly enough,” Joly fretted. “He said it was essential it happen today… but when today? Suppose it’s too late?”

“Then it’s too late,” Lesgle said. “And we’re too late to mend it. Don’t think of it.” 

“I’m _trying_ not to…” 

The Enjolras’ print shop was large and prosperous, and from the general air of bustle and haste, one could only assume that they had a great deal of work to complete. Enjolras was stripped down to his shirtsleeves, hunched over a tray of type. His hands moved impossibly quickly over the metal letters. It put Lesgle in mind of the girls in school who had been splendid pianists: the speed and ease of the movements, the precise grace. 

“Beg your pardon,” she said when there seemed to be an appropriate pause in his work. Enjolras looked up, startled— an expression which did not much alter when he realized who had addressed him.

“Why, Joly, Lesgle, hello,” he said, rising and wiping his hands off on his apron. This was clearly more an instinctive gesture than a necessary one, for he’d touched no ink yet. “What a surprise.” 

“We considered ourselves long overdue for a call,” Joly said cheerfully. “We ran into Courfeyrac not long ago, and he let slip how you’d been longing to see us.”

“He would have come himself,” Lesgle added. “But he quite suddenly remembered a prior engagement he couldn’t escape.” 

“What a shame,” Enjolras said, his expression fading from politeness into quiet determination. “I will come see you this evening, when I am at more liberty. Until then, I have something I’ve been meaning to give to you both.”

“How kind.” Joly beamed. “We would love to have it. And to see you soon!” 

Enjolras gestured for them to wait, then slipped away. When he returned, he was carrying a box. Lesgle almost laughed: it was a hatbox from a rather prominent haberdasher, one that even she, unfashionable as she was, was quite certain Enjolras did not frequent. She had to resist the urge to lift the lid and see what Enjolras and Courfeyrac had hidden inside. 

“We’ll let you know how it suits,” Lesgle said as she took it from him. “And we’ll see you very soon.”

“Do not doubt it.” Enjolras laid a hand on Lesgle’s arm, then clasped Joly’s hand. “I must return to my work.” 

“Don’t let us keep you, of course,” Joly said. And, with the hatbox securely clasped in Lesgle’s arms, they both left the shop. 

“Is it very heavy?” Joly asked in an undertone once they were back on the street. 

“A bit,” Lesgle said. “I can’t quite tell what it is. I assume it would be pamphlets—there’s certainly some paper in there— but it feels too heavy, and it shifts about in the wrong kind of way for that.” 

“Money?” Joly asked uncertainly. “But I suppose there would be much easier ways to pass along money… Don’t look,” she added quickly.

“I wasn’t going to,” Lesgle laughed. “You know, it’s good luck our flat is such a mess. Hiding this will be the easiest thing in the world.” 

*

Courfeyrac’s second knock, early in the evening, was far less forceful than the first, and he had replaced his ostentatiously carefree air with a rather sheepish one: his hat was gone, his clothes and hair a mess, and he pressed a scarlet-stained handkerchief to his nose. Joly let out a cry at the sight of him and rushed to guide him to the sofa.

“Where’s Musichetta?” Courfeyrac asked. “I don’t want to bleed on her work.”

“She’s off to the theatre for the night,” Lesgle said. “And don’t trouble yourself about that. What happened?” 

“I’ve always thought I had a very honest face,” Courfeyrac said, wincing as Joly began dabbing at his nose with her handkerchief. “But the strangest thing— those fellows following me just wouldn’t believe me when I said I wasn’t going anywhere and had nothing to hide. The most amusing part being, of course, that it happened to be entirely true. I hope you two encountered no trouble?”

“No, none,” Joly said. “Now stop talking for a moment.” 

“I will talk for two,” Lesgle said solemnly. “I will try my best. We found Enjolras, Enjolras gave us a remarkably fashionable hat box, which I defy you to pick out from the mess here in the sitting room. –it’s over there,” she added, nodding to a corner, where it was hidden amongst two or three other hat boxes with rather less illustrious pedigrees. “Enjolras says he will come by as soon as he is free to do so.” 

“Your nose isn’t broken,” Joly declared. “And they don’t seem to have loosened any teeth. But you’ll have a black eye tomorrow, and I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done for this shirt and cravat.”

“A difficult loss to bear,” Courfeyrac said. “Oh, may I talk now?” 

Joly laughed. “Yes, you may. Does anything else hurt?” 

“Oh, I took a punch or two,” Courfeyrac said. “But nothing worse than my brother used to do.” 

“Come, let me feel your ribs anyway.” Joly gestured for Courfeyrac to stand, and he reluctantly obeyed.

“May we ask what’s in the box?” Lesgle asked as Courfeyrac squirmed under Joly’s inspection of his sides. 

“Bullet molds,” Courfeyrac said. Joly frowned, but didn’t pause in her work. “We shouldn’t have left them there in the first place, but we found ourselves short on safe spots.” 

“Well, in the future you can come here,” Lesgle said. “You know very well that Musichetta wouldn’t mind.”

“And neither, of course, would we,” Joly added. She straightened up. “You seem to be in one piece yet. But if you feel any pain…”

“Yes, yes, I’ll inform you at once,” Courfeyrac said. “Thank you. Both of you, for everything you’ve done today. I confess I wasn’t sure what to expect, when I asked. What kind of response, I mean.” 

“I can’t blame you for that. I… I suppose we have tended to run more… tepid, compared to the fervor of some,” Lesgle said. 

“I can’t believe they— you _weren’t_ doing anything wrong!” Joly burst out. “It’s appalling, you ought to tell—”

Courfeyrac smiled wryly. “The police?” He lowered himself gingerly back onto the sofa. “There’s nothing to be done about it— aside, that is, from what we are already doing.”

“And as you have so kindly demonstrated today,” Lesgle said, taking a seat beside him, “one cannot just fight halfway, can they. You either do or do not, for those above see no in between. –goodness, I’ve made the police sound rather like God, haven’t I.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Well, I will pass no judgment on your theology, but— the rest, I believe, is quite true.”

“I think—” Joly began, but she was interrupted by a knock on the door. All froze, alarmed, until a familiar voice issued from the other side: “It’s Enjolras. And Combeferre is with me.” 

As they stepped through the door, Lesgle couldn’t help but laugh at how identically Combeferre’s reaction to seeing Courfeyrac mirrored Joly’s of just a few minutes before. 

“Joly’s seen to it!” Courfeyrac cried, holding up his hands in defense from Combeferre’s determined approach. 

“Yes, but Combeferre’s been studying longer than I have, you ought to let him look, too,” Joly said fretfully. “A cracked rib can cause a world of difficulties, you know…” 

Lesgle surrendered her place on the sofa to Enjolras so that Courfeyrac could tell the full story: being trailed, recruiting Lesgle and Joly to take his place, running into a set of suspicious officers. Enjolras looked stoic, Combeferre as if he was disgusted by their conduct.

“I’m very sorry,” Enjolras said. “And happy you weren’t seriously hurt. We will be more careful in the future. I think Bahorel has a great deal to teach us in that respect— which is what I hoped to speak to you about, if you feel up to it.”

“Yes, of course,” Courfeyrac said. “But Joly, Laigle, we won’t intrude if you—”

“No, please,” Lesgle cut in. “Stay.” 

“If nothing else, you ought to rest at least little longer, Courfeyrac,” Joly said. 

Enjolras nodded his thanks and went on: “I’ve been speaking with Bahorel quite frequently of late. In light of the king’s ill health, he has also started gathering more regularly than he used to with a small group, and proposed that his society of… friends should combine with ours.” 

“I think it is an excellent idea,” Combeferre added. “Bahorel has more experience than any of us can boast of, and he is friends with all sorts of poets and writers.”

“While we will supply the students and workers,” Courfeyrac said, nodding. “Yes, I like it very much. I like _him_ very much. We could do quite a lot, I think, with— well, the three of us, Bahorel—”

“He has a friend called Prouvaire,” Combeferre said. “I’ve met him once or twice, very shy, but very bright.” 

“Enjolras, your friend Feuilly, surely he’ll come…” 

“Yes, certainly,” Enjolras agreed. “I’m to see him tomorrow, I’ll mention it then.” 

“And us.” It was out before Lesgle could think, almost before she was fully aware that it was what she wanted to say. 

“If you will still have us,” Joly added. This time, they didn’t need to look at one another to be sure of the other’s thoughts. 

Courfeyrac smiled brightly and rose. “Yes, of course. I’ve been hoping you’d say that all along.” 

* 

“I _am_ proud of you,” Musichetta said, twirling one of Joly’s curls around her finger. “Though I hope that isn’t why you did it.”

“Of course not,” Lesgle said. Joly, half-asleep with her head in Musichetta’s lap, made a sleepy sound of assent. It was very late— Musichetta had been home from the theater for some time, but with so much to discuss and explain, they still hadn’t made their way from the sofa to the bed. With Joly spread out to lie in Musichetta’s lap, Lesgle was perched on the arm of the sofa, Musichetta leaning against her. 

“I realized that… well, that in a way, I was only thinking of myself,” Lesgle said. “I got— distracted, you might say. By how free I felt. That for the first time in my life, I could— can— do as I pleased, and go where I please, speak as I please. But no one is, are they. Even men.” 

“Some men, I suppose,” Musichetta replied. “There are plenty of gentleman in the assembly who consider themselves as free as can be, I’d expect. But not most men.” 

Lesgle nodded agreement. Musichetta sighed and settled a little more heavily against her. Lesgle draped an arm around her shoulder.

“Shall we go to bed?” she asked. 

“Mm,” Musichetta agreed. “I’ll get up in a minute.” 

“Will you?” Lesgle laughed. She slipped down from the sofa’s arm and Musichetta slumped against it in her place, she and Joly (who was quite asleep by now) shifting their way into a more comfortable position to curl up together. Lesgle was about to shake them both awake, but then she stopped. Sprawled together though they were on a sofa that was really too small for two to sleep on, Joly’s long legs tucked in tight, Musichetta’s arm dangling off the side of the couch, they looked too peaceful to disturb. And Lesgle couldn’t help but think that soon there would be more than enough to do.


End file.
